


Title, full stop.

by Itsnot_a_phasemum



Series: Eddsworld Oneshots [7]
Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Hewwo?, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Other, References to Depression, Suicide, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Writing, XD, another edgy fic, but when do I not write edgy fics, hey gamers I'm back with uhhhh, owo, tord - Freeform, uhhhhh, yeah tws there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 17:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13931730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsnot_a_phasemum/pseuds/Itsnot_a_phasemum
Summary: Write, write, write until you can no morereferences to depression/suicide tw,





	Title, full stop.

**Author's Note:**

> hey y'all I hope you read the summary!!!!!

It’s perfectly normal for one to be down in the dumps occasionally. A person can’t stay happy forever, after all.

 

What seems terribly unfair and far from normal is how frequently it happens to Tord himself. 

 

He usually bottles his feelings in, pours his irritation, sadness and anger in and keeps it in. Everything’s alright. Then when all the bottled up emotions are threatening to burst, the tiniest problem shakes the bottle. The cap goes flying off, the liquid inside erupting like a volcano. When the explosion ends, he feels drained, the excess droplets of his emotions dragging him down even more. But no one understood that, did they? People don’t try thinking in other people’s perspectives. They blame you instead, calling you sensitive, and that you should just chill out. That it was just a joke. Yeah. Hilarious.

 

He’s used to misery following his every step, sometimes pushing him down, sometimes running ahead and setting up holes for him to fall into. It’s hard to care after falling into another hole for the hundredth time. Let it happen to him, let it drag him down. It’s hard resisting every time when there are so, so many obstacles waiting ahead of him.

 

Then, he finds a way to let it all out. All his pent-up frustrations, sorrows, the feeling of inevitable death counting down his time left on this earth. He writes. 

 

All the scars, old and fresh, the poison that fills his brain and mind, is his ink. His muse. His fingers the pen, gradually transforming the anxiety and tears into words that decorate the paper, giving it life. His paper is his best friend, his lover, the only thing that understands how he feels. He disguises his unmeasurable despair in works of art, melancholy words blossoming onto the previously white, blank paper. And it helps. Every time he finishes writing a piece, he feels much better than before, like the words borrowed a part of his mind, a part that hurts so badly, relieving him of unhappiness. A shame that it was only temporary. 

 

The few who read his work praised it, complimenting his creativity and how it was filled with raw emotion. Ah. Creativity. Yes. 

 

The blood and tears he wove into alluring fabric? All creativity that was imagined from his mind. Do they not see blood dripping from the cloth? The desperation that claws and tears and begs to be noticed? 

 

He doesn’t remember when his stories turned to cries for help, but it happened all of a sudden. The more tears he shed, the more scars that littered his skin, the darker he moulded his words. His damaged mind overflowing with pure, screaming anguish, flooding his whole body and dripping down onto the paper he wrote on. Stress clutched his head and forced him to look into the eyes of paranoia. A feeling that nothing he does is ever good enough was a ring on his finger, clamping down like a vice, continually convincing him to change every word. A constant lump in his throat, heart hammering up to his ears as he struggled to breathe, fingers shaking as he continued to write. He grasped at the pen as though it was the only thing that could save him, like it was a beam of light at the end of a pitch black tunnel.

 

The tunnel won’t end. He runs and runs but he just can’t reach the light. Day by day, the light gets smaller and dimmer, the disfigured claws of indescribable hopelessness tugging at him to give up, leaving more cuts on his arms. Screaming, pleading, cajoling. Telling him to give up, that there is no happy ending. There just isn’t one for him. Everything he tries will eventually end up with him plunging into the murky water, depression welcoming him with open arms as they warmly laugh, pressing against his lips and breathing peacefulness into his lungs. Tord finally giving in and resting his worn out body for all of eternity and into cosmos, where hearts bleed with pain no more. Where there is no pain, no sadness, no more hurting. No anything. Nothing. It’s the best he can ask for. The void linking arms with him with a beaming smile, promising to stay by his side forever and ever. And ever. And ever. And ever and ever and ever. 

 

His pen writes the final full stop onto the paper as he leans back in his chair, a vacant look in his eyes. Numb all over. It’s better than his mind aching with the usual despair, he supposes. He closes his eyes, hands going slack as he just sits there, breathing. No more thinking and hurting, just embracing the momentary senseless feeling and wondering if anyone will ever know.

 

If they’ll ever peel back the mask behind his work, revealing the Norwegian boy underneath.

 

If anyone will ever step in and push away the depression that clasps their hands over Tord's, taking over and maneuvering the pen to their own content.

 

 

 

 

 

If anyone will ever stop and think if all his writing portrays himself. If they will ever look down and spot the blood and poison flowing from his every word. Are they oblivious? Are they ignoring it on purpose? He’s suffering, he’s hurt, he’s dying, he’s screaming and there’s nothing left for him in this world and god please please PLEASE he’s standing on a cliff a step away from death and he’s going to take that step any moment now he’s hesitating he’s scared but he will he will and will anyone stop him will anyone will you? Will you help him will you tear him away from death’s grasp would you be kind enough would you care enough will you help him please will you help me?

 

 

 

The light’s getting dimmer.

**Author's Note:**

> tee hee


End file.
